


thunder in our hearts

by kanadka



Category: Babylon 5
Genre: Guilty Pleasures, Internal Conflict, Internal Monologue, M/M, POV Second Person, being neroon is suffering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 23:04:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21261101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kanadka/pseuds/kanadka
Summary: Neroon wrestles with his own internal monologue and loses.





	thunder in our hearts

**Author's Note:**

> Mostly an experiment with voice + monologue, and because there is never enough of Neroon suffering, or Neroon bottoming.
> 
> Thanks to Kate Bush for the title.

You shouldn't be doing this.

You shouldn't be wrapping your arms around him like this. You shouldn't be holding him. You shouldn't be without clothes, skin to skin, with his strange alien flesh. You can't seriously expect sleeping in a bed like this is good for your long-term health.

But here you are, back on this miserable Earth station, with your own last, best hope for peace. You're in his quarters. He invited you in. You arrived freely. You were well-aware of what might happen (you hoped it _would_ happen) because there's precedent. This isn't even the first time you've been tempted out of your discipline. You could have left by now. You _should_ have left. What business you had concluded an hour ago.

But you didn't go anywhere, and he kissed you and yet again you were weak and now your uniforms are strewn on his floor, mingled together, like the rest of you, like the so many parts of you both that are in contact. It shouldn't feel so good, so right, to give in. He's warm, and soft, and running your fingers down his skin - through his hair - gives you the most bewildering pleasure, as it always does, but if that were truly all there was to it, you could have just gotten a gokk. You wouldn't run the risk of being ostracised from your entire caste for that.

Were you really so starved for contact you'd take an alien to your bed? That you'd let one take you into theirs?

Maybe you like this. You've always had to have things be difficult. You've always liked a challenge. You always have to be special, don't you? You wanted this. If it hadn't been him, maybe someone else. Maybe a different alien. Why, there's _so many_ to choose from! Throw a stone in the main concourse of Babylon 5 and hit three, that should keep you busy for a valsta! You're disgusting. Perverted can't even begin to describe this. Minbari culture is famously isolationist and here you are, debasing yourself with a Human.

Maybe you did it to anger your Shai Alyt. Tell him off for making you come here and intercede in Delenn's ceremonies. Even if you didn't agree with it, you know better than to intercede in a ceremony like that. You didn't with Sinclair. After all, as Shakiri loves to keep reminding you, you stood passively as Satai for the Warrior Caste while Valen's sacred robes were laid at Sinclair's Human feet. Shakiri should have been happy that at last the Entil'Zha were Minbari again.

If Delenn is even enough Minbari to count.

Are you doing this to spite her? Show her she's not the only one who can take a Human mate? She took Starkiller; you'll take a Human Anla'shok whose Fik is passable at best. Is everything a contest to you? Even this? Is it a game? Will you wager and leverage your Human away, now that you've won him? Does all this mean so little to you?

No. No, you'll never let anyone else have him. You know this much. Over the weeks you've let yourself be drawn to him as you worked together. The thought of anyone else so much as touching him turns your stomach, and that's your only consolation, the only thing that stops you from wondering just how deep the perversion really goes. That's how you've justified coming back here and staying so long after the work is done. You can tell yourself, and you do, that he's different, that he's special, that he's worth spitting in the face of your culture, that you had to have him, that you couldn't help it, that you fell in love like it was a gravitational well.

Makes a nice story, if it helps you sleep at night.

You know he won't let anyone else have you, either, right? You know that. You must know that. You two are similar enough where it counts. You're similar enough here. You belong to him, now.

Does such a thought satisfy you? It should rankle you. No Minbari can have you. No Minbari _will_ have you. They will probably sense his touch all over your skin. You've infected yourself with it.

They'll sense what you've done tonight. They'll sense your embrace. How he put his lips on yours, how he trailed kisses down your neck. How his fingers groped for the clasp of your uniform chest plate. Maybe they'll sense that you knocked his hand away (after all, it took younger you some time to work out all the parts, and you were too hungry and impatient for his graceless fumbling), that you _removed it for him._ That he opened your tunic as he walked you backwards until the backs of your calves touched his bed. That he sat you down as you (your mouth already watering) undid the belt of his uniform, as you reached up to slip it from his shoulders, and as it pooled around his bare feet he straddled your thighs and climbed in your lap and pushed you down by the shoulders and _you let him_. You _let him_ strip you, you _let him_ lean you back and you _let him_ press himself down, nude, atop you, his hair spilling over your chest, you _let him_ suck at your neck until you were breathless. You spread your legs for him then, your head spinning with dizzy, heady pleasure, and he shifted against you and gasped and you rode stars.

No Minbari will ever bother with you after all this.

Hah! As though you are really such a catch that there was ever any Minbari interest! You should be glad anybody bothered, Human or Minbari. Your position is the only thing of worth about you, given that you abandoned your honour at the threshold of your Human lover's door, and it's a small miracle you even have that.

As though you really deserve your seat on the Council of Clan Elders. You're not fit for your uniform, let alone for such prestige. However had you been appointed Satai? You must have tricked them. How dare you do any of this and show your face back home. How you don't spontaneously combust from the shame is anyone's guess. Not even the Religious Caste would pray for your soul, if they knew. And it's their job to pray.

You do feel some guilt. The dishonour from this shouldn't ever be spoken of. It can't be. They'll never understand. You barely understand it yourself. But the guilt obviously isn't enough to stop you from putting your mouth to his. You continue to do that, in this afterglow. It's like you can't keep yourself away. He opens his lips to you; you seek out his tongue with yours and you moan when you find it. Where has your discipline gone? Did honour mean nothing to you after all? No, the guilt you feel is because you know you can never publicly claim him like this.

As though you'd want to.

You _do_ want to.

But you'll never be able to tell anyone. Your heart sings and it must sing alone. You feel guilt because you haven't told him that, yet, though he's clever enough to have guessed. You feel guilt from letting him down. But you don't feel nearly enough guilt from letting the clan down. You're such a terrible Star Rider. Your own family would disown you, if they hadn't cut contact with you years ago.

They can't know.

No one can know.

No one gets to see how he arches in your arms - how you arch in his - how you take each other, how your body seeks ecstasy at his hands, how he gives it to you.

His body should be ugly, to you. You've categorised all his differences by now. The sight of his hair alone should have revolted you, to say nothing of his genitalia. His skin feels different - it feels oily. (You shouldn't know this. You shouldn't know what it tastes like either but you've run your tongue down his neck so many times now you'll never forget the salt of it.) It's not like Minbari skin. It feels softer, smooth and cool. That's the oil glands, you imagine. Over the months you've come to realise you're not a little addicted - you can't stop touching him. He seems to be similarly afflicted, and you don't brush his hands away. You let him put them all over you. You let him caress you - you sigh, you moan for it - he slides his fingers down you, he grips you, you're slick for him, hard again - helpless, you cry out.

Everyone you lost in the war at the hands of these Humans would damn you for this. You know what he did during the war. He's told you himself! Other Minbari died at these hands that give you pleasure. Then again, countless more Humans died at your hands, and yet he freely grants you access to whatever you want. (And, by the universe, but do you _want_.) But it is one thing for an honourless Human to do these things. You are Minbari, and you are held to a higher standard.

Or so you thought. Why else do you curl your hands around him to make him spasm, to see him spill for you? (You shouldn't know what _that_ tastes like, either, but out of some perversion you lick your fingers clean and now the taste lingers on your tongue. You disgraceful excuse for a Warrior, you're not even a little sorry.) Why should it make your heart beat faster when he does? Why do you reward him with your lips?

You can't even rest your hand over his (feeble, Human) heart as you would with another Minbari without being reminded that he's not Minbari. Every hair on his chest is impossibly _there_. What do you think you're doing with him? This lesser species.

But he makes no apology for this, so neither do you. He is as he is. In the end, he cannot help being Human and would not want to. (Then, he is more honest than you.) No, the problem lies with you. Not enough of you is deterred. _None_ of you is deterred. Not your body, evidently, and certainly not your heart, which cries out for him. You thought at first you were so desperate to prove you could court anyone at all successfully, and that was why it was so easy. So easy to fall.

You know better.

Twenty cycles since you came of courting age and you cannot find one single Minbari - outside your clan, outside even your caste. Twenty cycles. It took him one month to work his way past your defences. It is not because they're so worn - it cannot be. You raise your hackles for all other Minbari; keeping your distance is a reflexive thing. (So why didn't you do it here?) It is not because you waited so long that you would settle. It's because of him. Others tried to court you. Where they failed, he didn't, and he undid you in a month. You picked him. You liked him. You became fond of him. You saw the warning signs for what they were, and you willfully ignored them. For instead of keeping your distance like any respectable Minbari, you nursed that fondness like moths are drawn to flame. These were the actions that signaled your choice. You _selected_ this.

And you were easy for him. He had barely but to ask, and you answered, you leapt. Your heart called out like it was begging for it. Pathetic.

You should have been stronger. Resisted harder.

Instead he tips you back upon his sheets of his (horizontal!) bed and climbs atop you and you don't resist one bit. You tempt death to lie like this. But you don't even deserve the peace of the void of the universe that awaits a worthy warrior.

Another round, then. It has been more than six hours since you first called upon him; fortunate that you had the foresight to send your guards away, or there would be talk. What business could an Alyt of the Warrior Caste have to discuss with an Anla'shok that takes so long? He puts his mouth on you - his hair pooled on your skin like ink - and you forget all about your guards, your duties, your responsibilities. For what purpose did you even come here? To this room, to this place, to this station? You hope you took notes, for you've utterly forgotten and your world has narrowed to the velvet smooth strokes of his tongue as it trails along your wet length and the tips of his fingers that nimbly reach behind.

It is a done thing in the Warrior Caste - to queen-play, as they call it, to be so served like this by another. He's slicked himself and opened you only enough that it will burn - you'll feel it - you _want_ to - and you spread your thighs wide for him to kneel forward and direct himself in. In so doing it is the perfect position as you have by your culture the power and he has, by his, his own.

Ironic that you two should be so compatible. Fitting, in the worst and most horrifying way. If it is truly so powerful, then how has he so quickly rendered you breathless?

He thrusts inside you and groans, helpless. He's told you before that every time feels like the first, months ago, and that though you've reached a pattern together, a rhythm, it is still new and raw. You clutch him close with your legs; your heels dig into the small of his back. You can barely breathe for moaning, your hands curled around his shoulders, the spikes of your crest dug into the pillow with the way you arch back to receive him.

He takes you in hand on a particularly deep thrust and you cry out, reeling through an onslaught of sensation. He leans down then, his hips driving against you, and you can truly feel everything, outside - the wiry hair, the two strange structures that hang between his legs that brush against the backs of yours - and in - the hardness of him splitting you wide, its softer rounded head, driven deep within to the internal structure at the base of your length, where he lights a million nerve endings on fire. You can picture it clearly as you are, two naked souls bound together, the flesh doesn't matter anymore. The intimacy alone nearly crests you again. He thrusts once more and takes your lips as he stiffens and spills, his shout muffled by your mouth, and you drink him in and pleasure seizes you in his strong grip. Mine, you think gloriously, mine, as you tighten around him.

_Of course I'm yours_, he whispers afterwards, against your neck, with your hand in his hair. He has you so undone, so uncontrolled, that in your frenzy you didn't realise you'd said it aloud. He slips from you but doesn't move, collapsed where he is between your legs, with a hand still possessively around your length. He doesn't have to say _mine_ \- you already know how he's claimed you.

But you belong to the clan, Alyt. You were not your own to give. You cannot give him anything.

And yet you hand yourself over like you are the exception to the rule. Like you think you know better than your whole species.

He dozes there, on your shoulder, still half on your chest. The first time you did this, you plunged into cold regret the moment the lust wore off, you threw your clothes on and raced away. Now, you don't move. The more you do this, the better you get at ignoring its frozen stab. Soon you will feel no remorse at all, and that day you truly will be his.

Maybe that's why you keep doing this. The better to ignore your duties. The better to drown yourself.

How far you've fallen. You can no longer see the event horizon. You turned your face away.

It has to be love. What else could this destruction be? If you lusted only, you would have left by now, having taken what you wanted from him, you wouldn't keep spending the night. You wouldn't make excuses to stay, excuses to return. You wouldn't work this hard to release yourself from your people's obligations. You wouldn't push yourself out of the service you owe your people to forget them in the arms of someone who was once declared your honourless enemy. You know yourself. You know what's at stake and how much it's worth. Lust isn't worth that sacrifice.

But love could be. Love _would_ be. So you hope, anyway. This must be the first time you've ever been in it; you've never felt quite this way before. So it has to be for love.

And if it isn't, there's truly no justice in this universe. For all your faithlessness, you won't abide _that_.


End file.
